I’m over-explaining. Digging the hole deeper. “It’s black-tie. Fancy hotel downtown. Open bar. Decent food.” I add the last part as an afterthought, a pathetic attempt at enticement. As if fancy canapés could possibly appeal to a woman who creates magic with sugar and flour.
Another pause. Longer this time. This was a mistake. A colossal miscalculation. She’s going to say no. Politely, kindly, but firmly. And why wouldn’t she? After my initial hostility, my grumpy resistance, my clear emotional unavailability… why would she agree to be my pity date at some stuffy team event?
The thought of her refusal sends a surprising pang through me. Sharp. Disappointing.
Then, her voice comes through, clear and warm. “Okay.”
I blink. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Okay. I’ll be your buffer. Your anti-small-talk shield. Your… date-for-hire?” She laughs softly, the sound like bells tinkling. “When is it?”
Relief floods me, instantaneous and overwhelming, followed immediately by a fresh wave of terror. She said yes. She actually said yes. “Saturday,” I manage to say. “Seven o’clock. I can pick you up. At the bakery? Or your house?”
“Saturday at seven works,” she confirms. “Pick me up at Sugar Rush. The bakery and my home are one in the same.”
“Sounds good,” I say, the words coming out with more certainty than I feel. “Thanks, Holly. Really. I owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it,” she replies, her voice still warm. “Consider it payback for coming to the tree lighting.” There’s a beat. “See you Saturday, Denton.”
“Saturday,” I echo.
Holy shit. She said yes.
A strange mix of emotions churns inside me. The terror is real, visceral – the fear of exposure, of vulnerability, of dragging her into the complicated mess of my life and career. The fear of what this step means, what doors it might pry open.
But beneath the terror, surging up like a breakaway goal against the odds, is something else. Something warm and fierce and terrifyingly unfamiliar.
Chapter 14
Holly
The borrowed dress I’m wearing is a slippery silk the color of midnight. It clings in places I’m not used to having fabric cling, and dips in a V at the back.
My reflection in the polished brass elevator doors is a stranger: hair swept up, a few artful tendrils escaping, makeup applied with Charlie’s expertise. Elegant. Polished. Utterly foreign.
I look like I should be holding a champagne flute, discussing stock portfolios or the merits of curated artisanal cheese boards.
The elevator chimes softly. Fifth floor. The doors slide open onto a wall of sound – laughter, clinking glasses, the smooth thrum of a jazz quartet playing “Let It Snow.”
Warm air, scented with expensive perfume, pine garlands, and something savory like roasted duck, washes over me.
It’s a sensory assault after the quiet tension of the drive over. Denton, silent and radiating a low-level hum of what I suspect is pre-game dread beside me in the car. Me, trying desperately not to fidget in this ridiculous dress.
He steps out first, a solid wall of black tuxedo that fits him like it was forged onto his powerful frame. He pauses just beyond the elevator threshold, turning back, his hand extended.
“Ready?” His voice is low, barely audible over the din.
I force a breath past the sudden constriction in my throat. I place my hand in his. His warm fingers close around mine.
“As I’ll ever be,” I manage, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere near squeaky dog toy.
He tucks my hand firmly against the crook of his elbow, his forearm solid as steel beneath the fine wool. “Stay close,” he murmurs, his gaze already sweeping the crowded ballroom entrance ahead. “Stick to the game plan.”
The ‘game plan’, hastily outlined in the car, consisted mostly of ‘smile, nod, I’ll handle the rest.’ Not exactly a detailed tactical briefing. But the warmth of his arm beneath my hand, the subtle pressure guiding me forward, sends a confusing mix of comfort and adrenaline rushing through my veins. We step into the fray.
It’s… a lot. Crystal chandeliers drip light onto polished marble floors. Women shimmer in sequins and silk, their laughter sharp and bright. Men tower, many of them nearly as tall and broad as Denton, their movements carrying the easy, powerful grace of professional athletes.
Cameras flash intermittently near a backdrop emblazoned with the Chicago Blades logo. It feels like walking onto a movie set where everyone knows their lines except me.
